Ashes
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: AU in which Moriarty comes through with his threat to burn the heart out of Sherlock.


He was back at the pool. The dim fluorescent light reflected off of the lifeless water as Sherlock stood with pistol in hand, aiming at Moriarty. The two consultants were the less than two feet apart, and John was nowhere in sight. Sherlock could hear his own voice billowing out from inside him, as if it weren't even him making the sound.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." He could see Moriarty snicker, and produce a half grin as if this statement pleased him.

"We both know that's not quite true." He retorted with a devilish smile, inching closer.

"Sherlock!" John's voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. Sherlock looked up and around ,but saw nothing.

"Sherlock!" John repeated, his shout echoing and reverberating within the walls.

Suddenly Moriarty was gone. Sherlock began frantically searching, until he heard another shrill cry that seemed to come from right in front of him.

"_Sherlock!_" He closed his eyes. John's voice sounded angry that time. Before he could lift his lids once more, he felt two hands clasp down onto his shoulders.

He gasped for air as he jerked open his eyes to find John hovering above him, straddling his shoulders, cursing at him to wake up.

"Finally! Jesus, Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he loosened his grip and stood by the dresser.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, coming to the quick realization that he was in his own room.

"I swear, you go from not sleeping for days on end to not waking up until the sun goes down! Now get dressed, I got a message from Lestrade." John huffed to himself before closing the door behind him.

Sherlock slouched into the living room, defiantly still in his sleepwear, and sunk down into his chair.

"What are you doing?" John's tone was getting cross now.

"I'm sitting. Are you so dim you can't deduce that based on evidence provided?"

"Thank you for that confidence boost Sherlock, but seriously, get dressed. We needed to leave five minutes ago."

"Five minutes, four seconds, it's all the same." Sherlock waved a hand in the air as if to shoo away the entire concept of time.

"What's the matter with you? You're usually chomping at the bit to get on a case and now you won't even get off your chair?" John continued to hurry about the house, sliding on his coat and gloves.

"Tell me what the case is."

"You'll know when we get there."

"If it's not interesting it's not worth my time. Tell me the case."

John let out an exasperated sigh, "All Lestrade said was there was a fire."

"So now we're suddenly the fire department?"

"Sherlock," John was growing ever more irritable, "obviously there was something not right about it and we need to check it out. Or would you like me to go down and do the deducing myself?"

Sherlock shot straight up and marched to his bedroom. "How cold is it out, John?" he shouted from behind the half closed door.

"Dunno, cold enough to pop up your collar I'm sure though, hurry up."

As the pair made their way down the grey pavement, the bitter wind wisped Sherlock's curls in all directions.

"Bloody hell," Sherlock mumbled from underneath a mouthful of scarf, "You said it wasn't that cold."

"When did I say that?"

"You implied it."

"No, you're ill-prepared and you won't admit it."

"The weather is so tedious John, it's not my concern to keep track of it."

"Mm, so I'm your weather man too now am I?"

"What do you mean 'too'? What else are you to me?"

"Your alarm clock, apparently."

"Oh please,"

"You're insufferable, Sherlock."

"And you're tedious."

John just rolled his eyes and pulled his gloves on tighter.

There was nothing left. What was once a functioning, livable space, a space that bore the name "home", was now nothing but a cavernous reminder of what it once was. The walls, deteriorating and covered in black soot, were but a container that held only ghosts of the objects that used to reside within them.

John's mouth hung open as he stared at the black hole that the flat had been reduced to after the fire. Sherlock stood tall and expressionless as he surveyed the damage.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a pyrotechnic." Sherlock almost smiled.

"More like a pyro_maniac_," Lestrade insisted as he motioned John and Sherlock further into the room.

"Well, you wouldn't bring us here to look at an empty burnt flat so what's the emergency?" Sherlock was growing impatient already.

Lestrade looked around cautiously, as if to make certain no one was listening in. "There was someone living here." His tone dripped of worry.

"But not when it burned down," John tried to reassure. Lestrade's eyes widened and he gave John a look that didn't need words.

"Oh, my god," John breathed out.

"We think it was a woman," Lestrade started, "but erm…there's a slight problem." He stepped toward what was left of the hallway. "Careful," he said as he jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom, "there's fallen beams everywhere."

Lestrade led them through the decrepit mess to what was once a small bedroom.

"I think as you've probably noticed Sherlock," Sherlock's ears perked up at the mention of his name, "this kind of damage isn't typical of a normal house fire." Lestrade continued.

"Of course. Things are burned to a crisp, disintegrated even. Possible explosion. High grade gun powder perhaps," he sniffed the air, "gasoline, too, definitely."

Lestrade looked down at a lonely patch of fabric that lay on the ashen floor. "Now I don't know about you but I don't know too many common house fires that start with explosives."

"What's that fabric you keep staring at?" Sherlock spit out as soon as Lestrade's eyes met it again.

"It's the problem."

"What do you mean?" John chimed in.

"It's um…it's part of the shirt the woman was supposedly last seen wearing. This and other scattered bits, it's…all that's left of her."

"Not even bones?" John worried.

"Well, yes, small fragments, but again they're scattered."

"So obviously someone tried to blow this woman up and you want our help to find out who and why." Sherlock threw his words at Lestrade like he was wasting his time.

"Yes, that's what we need from you. Sherlock, I hate to admit this but you're far better at the microscopic stuff than my guys. I'm sure all these fragments and bits are like Christmas morning to you so I'll leave you to it."

Lestrade exited the room with a worried look on his face.

"So," John started, "is this case worthy of the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"If you're going to use sarcasm John, do me one favour."

"What's that?"

"Don't open your mouth."

The ride back to 221B was filled with nothing but silence. The pair both turned their heads to the window, as if not looking at each other meant the other was not there at all. When they finally reached the top of the steps and strode inside, the strange tension was growing to be too much.

"This morning, I told you to get dressed. I told you we had a case."

"You're wasting my time already. What's your point?" Sherlock slouched in his usual chair, fiddling with his watch.

John just stood above him with his arms crossed and his feet planted firmly on the floor. "You grazed in here and slumped on your chair like you could care less if there was a case or not."

"_Couldn't_ care less, John, couldn't."

"Thank you, Wikipedia. Now tell me why the hell you were so sluggish. Since when do you not care about having a case?"

"Since when do you care about what I care about?"

"Stop changing the subject!"

Sherlock's eyes diverted immediately with John's raised voice. John suddenly regretted his harsh tone when he saw something strange happening to the detective. Sherlock wasn't making eye contact. He sat with his legs scrunched up in front of him and his arms around his knees, staring off in another direction. To John's amazement, there seemed to be a watery coating glossing over Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock…" John almost whispered, staring open-mouthed at the watery-eyed consulting detective. "Sherlock, are you—"

"No!" Without looking at John, Sherlock stormed up and into his room, slamming the door hard behind him.

John sighed heavily, then, for a change, plopped down into Sherlock's chair. He rested his head back and closed his eyes. Having no words to sort out the confusion in his head, he picked up Sherlock's violin, and absent-mindedly began plucking on the strings.

From his bedroom, John could hear Sherlock's muffled shout through the door, "John I swear to god if you put one more finger on my violin I will not hesitate to plant all five of mine across your face!"

John just wrinkled his nose and put the violin down. He looked out the window across the room. The uniform heather-grey sky was beginning to produce a light drizzle. He listened to the soft sound the tapping of the raindrops made on the window. He stared in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom and headed over.

"Sherlock?" John reached out a hand hesitantly by his door, considering whether or not to knock. All John got back from the other side of the room was a faint grunt. "Sherlock can I come in?"

John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the message:

_No. –SH_

He rolled his eyes and decided to play along.

_I'm coming in anyway. –JW_

With a hand on the doorknob, John still waited for Sherlock's response.

_No you're not. –SH_

Now he was getting impatient.

_Stop me. –JW_

John put his phone back into his pocket and turned the doorknob. He opened the door to find a towering Sherlock glaring down at him.

"I told you to stay out." Sherlock said flatly.

"No, there's something up and I want to know what it is."

"Let's not forget what curiosity did to the cat, John."

"I don't like cats."

"Let me sleep."

"_Sleep_? No, Sherlock. That's just it, you don't sleep. What's the matter with you?"

"I'm sorry, but if I'm remembering right, it's you who's been the most upset all day. There is nothing 'the matter' with me. You're the one who's complaining."

"I'm not complaining, I'm worried! You're not acting like you normally do and it's freaking me out."

"With me, is there such a thing as normal?"

"Just tell me what's bothering you."

"You are."

The words cut like blades through the air, and John stood in silence for a moment.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock."

"I will. Thank you." Sherlock shut the door in John's face.

The next morning, John awoke to a strange noise: silence. He lifted his ear off of his pillow and listened intently. There was no noise, no clinking of beakers, no scattering of papers. The flat was starved of the usual sounds that indicate the beginning of a case.

Cautiously, John made his way down to the kitchen, where he quietly turned his head around the corner. There was a tall, lanky figure missing from the sagging armchair in the corner. John looked over at Sherlock's bedroom door, which was strangely creaked open. He was about to call out Sherlock's name when he glanced over at the kettle, and noticed a small piece of paper stuck to it. He peeled it off, it read:

_At the lab. Important stuff. Don't bother. –SH _

The words "don't bother" stuck out, and John read it as both "don't bother coming" and "don't bother me".

John just shook his head in disgust as he crumpled up the paper and flung it in the trash. He put the kettle on, less for the tea, more for the soothing hum the water made as it came to a boil. He curled up on his chair with a newspaper and read anything that would get his mind off of Sherlock's antics.

"Case closed." Were the first words to stumble out of Sherlock's mouth as he bound into the flat with an air of confidence.

"Closed? Already?" John looked up from his laptop to find Sherlock already sprawled across the sofa with hands clasped against his chest.

"The woman's name was Jenna Goodwin, thirty-four, lived alone. Worked in journalism, the messy kind. Had a lot of enemies apparently." Sherlock spoke as if listing this information was a requirement that he had to suffer through.

"So you know who did it then?"

"Obviously someone she offended."

"But you don't know who, so case not closed."

"I could think of a few other things that aren't closed. Go back to your blog, John."

"Excuse me? Have I done something to you?"

"Leave me be. I need to think."

"You know what? I think I will go back to my blog. I'll write all about how the brilliant Sherlock Holmes hasn't even figured out the culprit yet."

"Go ahead, it's not like anyone is going to read it."

John's frustration was beginning to boil. He slammed his laptop down and pushed the chair out from behind him, storming across the room. Before heading upstairs, he stopped and stared at Sherlock who was now curled up in a ball, his back facing him.

He opened his mouth, wanting to spit out a harsh comment, but closed it again and gritted his teeth. John balled up his fists and stomped to his room.

It was dark, damp, and cold. The blue and red curtains on the changing rooms stood stagnant in the humid air of the pool. Sherlock found himself back to aiming the pistol at Moriarty's smug face, and this time, John was standing next to him. The bombs weren't there, though. John just stood like a silent observer as if he weren't really in the scene at all.

"Let me guess, you're going to kill me." Sherlock's voice was unusually low and husky.

Then somehow, when Moriarty spoke, his voice seemed to fill up the whole room, "_Don't be obvious._" The words bounced off the walls and repeated themselves in Sherlock's ears.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Moriarty seemed only inches from his face, and he was saying something different. "If you don't stop prying," but Sherlock couldn't hear the end of his sentence. Moriarty's voice began to almost melt and drip away. He looked around, John had disappeared again.

Sherlock whipped his head around his shoulders, looking in every direction, because Moriarty had disappeared as well.

He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. Now every time he glanced in another direction, Moriarty's figure was standing there, glaring back at him, following his every glance.

Sherlock was breathing faster and faster, wondering how on earth Moriarty was everywhere at once.

His chest felt tight, he couldn't breathe. He fell backward and propped his back up against a changing stall. Suddenly he could feel a hand on his face, but couldn't see whose it was. The hand was warm, almost comforting, but he still couldn't breathe.

Then, as if through a megaphone, the words "_Wake up_!" resounded through the pool.

"Sherlock, open your eyes!" it was John's voice, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from. The invisible hand on his face tightened its grip, and then another warm hand planted itself on his shoulder. The colors of the pool began to twirl as the whole room started to spin.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes bolted open. Everything was fuzzy, but he deduced very quickly that he was lying on the sofa. He could make out John's figure towering above him, and realized whose warm hand was cupping his cheek.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John moved his hand to Sherlock's forehead where he instinctively checked for a fever.

Sherlock tried to sit up but gave up easily and plopped back down on the couch. "What…" he started, but words were escaping him.

"You were shaking, and sweating, are you okay? I'm assuming it was a nightmare?"

"Nightmare…" Sherlock repeated, shutting his eyes tight.

"Come on, drink some water or something, you're probably dehydrated considering you only eat every other day."

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock mumbled.

"As much as I'd like to believe that, I'm sure you're not." John headed over to the kitchen and filled Sherlock a glass of water from the tap. He rested it on the coffee table even though he was almost certain Sherlock wouldn't touch it.

John resigned back to his armchair, and to his surprise, Sherlock took a sip of his water. Sherlock's deep voice cut through the silence, "Does death scare you, John?" he asked in a flat tone.

John's eyes darted up. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. Does it scare you?"

"Well, of course it bloody does! Why wouldn't it?"

"Let me rephrase that, does the idea of someone else dying scare you?"

John sat with his mouth draping open, unable to find the right words. "Why are you asking me this?" was what he settled on.

"Curious." Sherlock didn't even look John in the eyes when he spoke.

"Let's not forget about that cat, Sherlock." John mused.

"Don't change the subject John. Answer my question."

"Alright, well, sure of course that scares me."

"But why would someone _else_ dying frighten you?"

"You really don't know?"

"Just answer me."

"Because," John faltered, "Because you want to ask them how it feels, how they feel, but you can't." John's voice was beginning to shake already, "You want to ask what they see, if they're alright, but you can't. You can still hear their voice, but you know they're not there."

"Is that all?" Sherlock asked, unimpressed.

"And, in a way, it feels like you're the one who has it worse, because you have to go on living knowing all of that."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"You think far too much."

"At least I think at all."

The flat was silent for a long moment after that. John dug his head back into his paper, pretending to read while thoughts of Sherlock's question whirled around in his head. He was about to get up and try to get his mind off of it when Sherlock broke the silence again.

"You said death scared you."

John hesitated, wondering if it was even worth it getting back into this conversation.

"Yes, I did say that."

"But why? Why is dying so terrifying?"

"Sherlock, _you're_ starting to scare me. Why are you asking this?"

"I just want to know. Now go on, explain." Sherlock waved a "go on now" hand at John.

"Erm…alright, well it's just…it's hard to think about."

"What do you mean?"

"When something happens to you, for the most part at least, you remember it."

"Yes, and?"

"Well, when you, when you—"

"Die,"

"Yes, thank you. When you die, you won't remember it, will you? You won't wake up in some hospital bed or in some strange bloke's flat. You won't wake up anywhere."

"Interesting," Was all Sherlock replied with before his phone went off in his pocket. He checked the message.

"It's from Lestrade, there's been another fire." He got up and went right to putting his shoes and jacket on. John began pulling his jacket on as well. "You're coming?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?"

"I thought you were angry with me."

"I'm always angry with you but I'm not just gonna give up a case 'cause of some petty argument."

"Interesting," And Sherlock headed out the door with John tagging behind.

The grey light poured in the large windows of the café. Sherlock and John sat in silence as John ate his meal and Sherlock sipped his coffee.

"Amazing," John stated.

"What's amazing?" Sherlock asked without even looking up.

"Two fires, two people, same circumstances, and you have no idea who's behind it."

"I always have an idea."

"Oh really? Then who did it? Who's been blowing people up Sherlock?"

"I said I have an idea not an answer."

"I can't believe this. You're clueless aren't you?"

"I am not!" Sherlock's tone was a bit too loud for the small café; people turned their heads in his direction. "Oh go back to your miserable lives!" he shouted at a young couple that was staring.

"Sherlock, we're in a public place."

"Astute observation, John. Thank you."

John shook his head and almost laughed, "I don't think I'll ever understand you."

"I don't think you'll ever have to."

The flat was filled with an eerie calmness as night fell over 221B Baker Street. The orange glow from the fire cast flickering shadows on walls and behind shelves. Sherlock was fumbling around with his chemistry nonsense on the kitchen table as John went through the case file.

"The last guy worked in sales, didn't have any enemies though."

"Your point?" Sherlock's eyes stayed fixed on his microscope.

"Why would anyone want to blow him to smithereens?"

"How exactly do you know he didn't have any enemies?"

"Erm, well no history of fraud or embezzlement, no shady deals, no criminal record…"

"And because of this you assume he was a good person?"

"I'd like to think so, yes."

"You expect far too much of people."

"No, I think I expect too much of you."

"And by that you mean?"

"You never fail to disappoint me Sherlock, ever." John got up quietly and walked sullenly up to his room without giving Sherlock another glance.

When John was finally gone Sherlock looked up from his microscope in the direction of John's room. He stared for a moment, then went back to his work.

John woke up to the familiar sounds of Sherlock running about the house. Without thinking, he smiled to himself and headed downstairs.

When he reached the living room, instead of finding Sherlock knee-deep in beakers and papers, he found him all dressed and ready to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I've got a new lead."

"And you weren't going to wait for me?"

"You're not coming with me."

"And why not?" John folded his arms impatiently.

"You don't need to follow me everywhere."

"I'm not sure if you're aware but that's pretty much what I do. Have you missed that?"

"Well congratulations, now you don't have to." Sherlock made for the door.

"Sherlock! I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not." He stated firmly with a hand on the doorknob.

"Says who? We're together in this, this is _our_ case. I'm not just some accessory you wear around."

"Sit down, John. Make some tea, you'll feel better." As he turned the doorknob, John's hand shot out and clasped tightly around Sherlock's wrist. He yanked him away from the door.

"No! You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on!"

Sherlock jerked his hand out of John's grip. "I do what I please." He glared into John's cloudy blue eyes.

"Obviously," John glared back at Sherlock's sea green stare.

"I'm going on this case without you."

"Why?"

"Just let me be!"

John huffed, and backed up until he was sitting in his regular armchair. He put his face in his hands and shook his head. "I don't understand."

Sherlock looked genuinely perplexed. "I'm sorry; do you need me to spell it out for you?"

"Spell what out?"

"I don't need you." The words hit John like a bullet and stung in his chest.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me!"

"I hear you but I don't understand you!" John suddenly realized how loud they were both shouting.

Then with frightening speed, Sherlock bolted toward John's chair, stomped his hands down firmly on the arm rests, trapping John in, and shouted in his face, "I. Don't. Need. You." He enunciated every word, and every word seemed to sting more than the last.

John gulped and tried to stop his eyes from becoming glassy as he stared back at the emotionless figure that towered above him.

After his nerves had settled, and after Sherlock backed up a bit, John finally found the strength to mutter, "Fine, then I'll leave."

"Good decision." The response was quick, almost planned.

"Better be packing my things then?"

"Go ahead. There's a luggage case in the closet."

"You're serious?"

"You're not?"

"You really want me to leave?"

"I didn't say that. I said I didn't need you. You suggested leaving."

"But you didn't protest."

"Why should I? I don't need you."

"Stop saying that."

"Stop listening."

John was finally beginning to crack. "D'you know what? One day you're going to wake up _absolutely alone_."

"And?"

"And you're not going to like it."

"Would you like me to get the luggage for you?"

John stared blankly at the unwritten blog post in front of him. The glow from the screen was beginning to hurt his eyes as he tried to come up with words that could describe the events of the last few days. As he began typing, he heard a strange knock at the door. It wasn't like Mrs. Hudson's tapping or Lestrade's soft pound of the fist, it was more rhythmic, almost calm.

John furrowed his brow, "Who's there?"

There was no answer. Instead, the doorknob started to turn slowly. John shot up from his chair in anticipation. He stood defensively by the desk as the gloomy figure of Moriarty appeared in the doorway.

John's instincts kicked in and he began to run to get his pistol.

"You won't need your gun, John." Moriarty sniggered as he shut the door softly behind him.

John stood motionless in the middle of the room, staring at the looming presence in front of him. "What do you want?" his voice was low and breathy.

"Oh, John, I want what you want." He smiled slyly with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Which is?"

Moriarty took a step closer, sending chills down John's spine, still ready to run for his weapon at the drop of a hat. "I want Sherlock Holmes." To words oozed from his crooked smile.

"You want…I don't understand."

"And isn't it just like you to not understand. You and I both know the real reason you stick around here."

"What's that?"

Moriarty seemed pleased to answer this question. He inched forward, "You live for it, don't you? Those snippets of time when Sherlock finally gives you a half a smile. Those fleeting moments when he acknowledges your presence. You want his attention. You crave his approval. You care for his wellbeing, while casually ignoring your own."

John swallowed his fear and balled his fists. "What do you want from me?"

"You're in my way, Dr. Watson. You have something of Sherlock's that I would much appreciate if you gave up."

"I haven't taken anything from him."

"You're right, nothing that he's aware of, anyway."

"What're you getting at?" John took a step to his right, just itching at the chance to run to his room and grab his gun.

"You've got his heart, Dr. Watson." Moriarty casually stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I've got his what?"

"I'm almost certain, no, I'm definitely certain, if it weren't for you, Sherlock Holmes would have been destroyed by now. You keep him safe, under control, you're his crutch, and you don't even know it."

John made a motion to begin running to his bedroom, "Oh how adorable Johnny boy! You think that weapon's going to help you? You think I don't have this place surrounded? Come on back over John, let's have a chat, shall we?"

Gritting his teeth, John walked steadily over to his desk, just two or three feet across from Moriarty.

"What do we need to chat about?"

"How you're going to burn."

John's eyes widened and he stood frozen in fear. "I beg your pardon?"

"You don't have to worry about Sherlock, he'll be fine on his own."

"What?"

"He'll live. Well, not for long but, you know."

Biding his time, "I don't follow."

"While it's true you keep Sherlock out of trouble, he doesn't believe for one second that you're the reason he's been getting on so well. You're just an accessory, a spare key, a _pet_. He has no idea how much you help him, and he won't miss you when you're gone."

"When I'm gone?"

"It's inevitable, John. You have to burn sometime. Don't you remember that childhood song?"

"Song?"

Moriarty smirked and stepped closer. He spoke very low, and very slowly, "_Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._"

John could feel his shaking breath escaping from his mouth. He gripped the corner of the desk as tight as he could, as if holding on to it would keep him safe.

Moriarty backed away a little, relaxing his shoulders, staring John up and down. When he spoke, his tone was more conversational. "Oh, and one more thing, just one more thing Dr. Watson."

"What's that?" John practically whispered.

With that, Moriarty curled up his fist and whirled it straight into John's face, sending him crashing down amongst a pile of boxes and books.

Moriarty turned away nonchalantly and called out to someone in the hallway. "He's all yours Seb, I'm done with him. You can do the rest." He opened the door and let Sebastian in, who was carrying a gallon of gasoline and container of explosives.

"The rest?" John murmured under his breath as he tried to get back on his feet.

Before he knew it, he was being dragged up by his shoulders and lugged down to Sherlock's room. He wriggled and wrestled but Seb's grip was too strong. Seb opened up one of Sherlock's closets and dumped John inside like a pile of old laundry.

John kicked and pleaded and shouted but it was no use. Seb placed some explosives inside the closet and shut the door, shoving a large dresser in front of it immediately afterwards.

Shaking, crying, and sweating inside the cramped closet, John could hear, and smell gasoline being poured throughout the room. He shut his eyes tight, hoping that when he opened them he'd find Sherlock shaking him to wake up.

When he opened his eyes again he knew. He knew that this was not a nightmare, and he did the only thing that popped into his head at the moment. He looked up.

Sherlock was experimenting diligently at the lab when he got the call from Lestrade. He was only told that there had been another fire, and there would be a car on its way to pick him up.

When Sherlock got into the car he immediately asked the driver where they were going, but silence was the only response. Sherlock understood full well when the car approached 221B.

He got out slowly, and began to examine the outside of the flat as if it were a strange crime scene. There was caution tape, flashing lights from police vehicles, fire trucks, and officers scattered about everywhere. The flat itself did not look different from the outside.

Sally Donovan approached Sherlock with, for the first time, a look of sincerity and worry. She lifted a walkie-talkie to her face and said in a sullen tone, "He's here."

Lestrade came walking out of the flat moments later. He reached out a hand for Sherlock, who casually ignored it as he stepped inside ahead of Lestrade.

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned as Sherlock headed hastily up the steps.

Sherlock ignored him, and stepped inside to the crime scene that used to be his flat.

The living area and kitchen were badly burned, but nothing was scorched as bad as the other homes. Many things were still intact. The room that had been almost completely obliterated was Sherlock's.

Without saying a word, he stepped inside what used to be his bedroom. The walls were blown out, support beams lay around everywhere, the furniture was burned to a crisp.

"Careful, there's um…" Lestrade started, but he stopped as soon as he saw what Sherlock was staring at.

On the floor in front of him lay a small patch of fabric that belonged to the beige jumper John had been wearing that day.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade whispered, unable to form words.

Then, without any control, Sherlock dropped to his knees, and his face fell in his hands. Lestrade could hear a soft, almost inaudible sob coming from the consulting detective. He reached out a hand to Sherlock's back in an attempt to console him, but backed away.

After another moment, Lestrade kneeled down next to Sherlock, and carefully placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He whispered.

Lestrade left Sherlock on his own for a while before coming back in to tell him he had to leave. Sherlock said nothing. He picked up the small piece of fabric and placed it in his pocket as he left.

The next few days were spent in a seedy hotel room while the flat was being renovated. Sherlock didn't even mind the horrible accommodations, because the days all just seemed to blur by.

Each day was greyer than the last; each hour was a fuzzy mix of tears and sleep.

The piece of fabric from John's jumper sat on the edge of the nightstand, and each evening Sherlock would stare at it until he couldn't see through his tears anymore. Sleep was nothing more than a way to escape the pain.

Mycroft tried to call. Lestrade tried to reach him. Molly sent flowers. Mrs. Hudson sent biscuits. Sherlock's phone was buzzing with apologetic calls and text messages, but he ignored all of it. He threw the flowers in the trash, tossed the biscuits out to the birds, and deleted all the messages.

The only message he did send was to John. He knew it wouldn't go through, but it was a strange comfort. The first the text he sent read:

_How do you feel? –SH _

Sherlock plopped the phone next to him onto the pillow. He shut his eyes, ready to shut out the pain, when his phone buzzed next to ear.

It was an automated text that read: _Error invalid number. Please re-send using a valid 10 digit number or short code. _

Sherlock shut off his phone, and sobbed into his pillow until he fell asleep.

The funeral was small and quiet. Barely a word was spoken. Strangers dressed in black came and went, but Sherlock stayed. There was no coffin. Instead, a small urn containing ashes from the flat would be placed under the earth.

When the flat was finally done being put back together, Sherlock wasn't altogether sure he even wanted to return. Then the thought of having to look for somewhere else to live struck him and he lugged himself back into 221B.

Mrs. Hudson helped him settle back in. She made him tea and sat him down on the sofa.

"Here you go dear, I know you don't like Earl Grey but it's all you've got." She handed him the steaming mug.

"It was John's favourite." After not speaking for almost a week, those were the very first words to fumble out of Sherlock's mouth.

Mrs. Hudson just stared longingly at the empty shell of a man that sat on the sofa. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders. He didn't protest, just sipped his tea and stared at the wall.

"Listen dear; I'll be downstairs if you need anything. I know I said I'm not your housekeeper, but, I'll do whatever—"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Good night."

She gave him a soft pat on the shoulder before heading out.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, and began typing a message to John.

_What do you see? –SH _

Sherlock shoved the phone back into his pocket, ignoring the error message that followed.

"It was Moriarty." Sherlock stated flatly, sitting across from Lestrade at the police station.

"How are you so sure?"

"That night at the pool, he um, said something that would, lead me to believe that this was his doing."

"What did he say?"

Sherlock sat in silence as Moriarty's voice echoed in his head.

_"__I will burn you. I will burn, the h—"_

"Sherlock? What did he say?" Lestrade was getting impatient.

"It's not important. I know it was him. He'll be coming after me next."

Lestrade sighed and wiped his hands over his face. "If you're one hundred percent certain, and I trust you Sherlock, I do, but if you're sure it was him, and you're sure he'll be going after you, we're going to need to have surveillance around you at all times."

"That won't be necessary."

"Why not?"

"Whatever comes my way, I assure you I deserve it."

"I'm not following."

"You don't have to look out for me Lestrade, I can fend for myself."

"Sherlock—"

"Don't argue with me, this is my choice."

"Alright, alright. But be careful, Sherlock, god, please be careful."

Sherlock got up to leave, but Lestrade stopped him before he could open the door. "Sherlock wait," he turned around, "I haven't exactly gotten the best chance to ask you…uhm, how are you…how are you doing?"

Sherlock just stared at him. "I'll leave you to deduce that one on your own."

Nightfall came sneaking up on 221B. The teal skies faded to a dark navy, and Sherlock sat in his armchair in front of the roaring fire, plucking something on his violin. He looked over at the mess in the kitchen. In his head he could hear John mucking about the room, sighing discontentedly at the clutter on the table.

Suddenly a moment flashed before his eyes, and he could hear John's voice echo in his ear.

"_No, I think I expect too much of you._"

Sherlock shuddered, closing his eyes tight. Then another line trickled its way into his mind,

"_You never fail to disappoint me Sherlock, ever._"

Without thinking, Sherlock took out his phone and typed a message with numb fingers.

_I can still hear your voice. –SH _

Sherlock dragged himself over to the sofa and covered himself lightly with a blanket. He had been sleeping on the couch ever since he returned to Baker Street, not being able to stomach sleeping in either his or John's room.

When Sherlock opened his eyes in the morning, he realized something. The feeling of emptiness inside him was screaming. The void in his life that had appeared so quickly finally made sense.

When Sherlock looked at the room and saw no one, when he listened closely and heard nothing, the line that John had said just a few weeks earlier resounded in his head, and sent shivers down his spine.

_One day you're going to wake up absolutely alone._

Sherlock stared at the emptiness in front of him.

_And you're not going to like it. _

He was at the lab, doing any research that could lead him closer to Moriarty. Molly stood awkwardly next to him, staring up at him every now and then.

"Molly," her face shot up at the mention of her name, "what is it called," Sherlock thought how to form the question, "what is it called, when you do something, and then wish you hadn't done it?" For what seemed like the first time, he lifted his head from the microscope and looked straight into Molly's eyes.

"Uhm, er, I believe that's regret, Sherlock, regret."

He looked back down at his experiment. "Regret…hm, that's new."

"Is there something," she started nervously, "is there something you regret doing?"

"Yes. Two things, actually."

"Do you, mind my asking what they are?"

"The first was ignoring and mistreating a friend who always did nothing but try to help, and the second is what I did to John."

"I'm not sure I get it…"

Almost unsteadily, Sherlock rose from his chair and leaned in close to Molly. She stared up at him in awe, not knowing where to look. Slowly, Sherlock placed a hand on Molly's shoulder and placed a kiss on her cheek.

He closed his eyes and took in the moment. When he pulled away, he whispered, "Thank you, Molly. Thank you."

Molly stood speechless as Sherlock casually went back to his microscope. "Erm, you're welcome…" she cleared her throat and tried not to smile wide.

"But I don't understand," she continued, "what did you do to John?"

Sherlock's stare didn't need words.

"You don't honestly think, you don't think the fire was—"

"My fault?" Sherlock interjected.

"How could it have been your fault?"

"It wasn't, not directly, anyway."

"But you still blame yourself?"

"Molly, all I know is that, I never, ever, want anyone to believe I don't need them."

It wasn't until about a month after the fire that Sherlock received a bone chilling text message.

_How're you doing without your blogger? –M _

Sherlock sat in his chair, fighting the urge to punch his phone. He didn't bother replying.

_You and I need to dance again. –M_

Sherlock stuffed his phone back into his pocket and went into the kitchen.

_Come and play. –M_

Now Sherlock took his phone and hurled it across the room, praying it would break into a million pieces as it hit the wall. Instead there was just a dull thud, and his phone landed unharmed on the carpet. He scoffed and curled up under the blanket on the sofa.

As he tried to shut the world out, his mobile buzzed yet again in the corner.

After five minutes of his mind going through every possibility as to what the message could say, curiosity got the best of him and he retrieved his device from the floor.

_Tomorrow night. Train tracks. 9:30. Don't be late. –M _

The next day, the evening sky couldn't come quicker for Sherlock. As 9:30 rapidly approached, Sherlock pulled on his boots, gloves and jacket. He tied his scarf firmly around his neck and tucked John's pistol in his back pocket.

On the cab ride over to the train tracks, Sherlock did not think about dying. He did not think about what Moriarty had planned for him. He only thought about how he would go about putting a bullet in Moriarty's brain, avenging his one and only friend.

When Sherlock reached the tracks, they were swarming with life. Blue and red police lights flashed up and down as Sherlock headed over to what was now a crime scene.

He met Lestrade's eyes, who immediately rushed over to Sherlock with a flashlight.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

"Moriarty." Was his only response. His eyes scanned the area for the manipulative bastard.

"Sherlock, there is no more Moriarty."

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"He's dead." Lestrade stated, almost smiling.

"What are you talking about?"

Lestrade pointed a little ways back to an area surrounded by officers and caution tape, "He's over there. Someone called, said they heard a gunshot. We found him lying there with a bullet through his chest."

"No, but, who?"

"We don't know. Whoever it was must've been a hell of a shot though, it was nearly pitch black when we got here."

Sherlock seemed shocked and relieved at the same time. He began scratching his head, questions forming already. "Well, then, I guess I, better be going."

Sherlock returned to Baker Street in a daze. What surprised him the most wasn't Moriarty's death, it was the fact that the first thing he wanted to do after hearing the news was to tell John. He wanted to tell John that he was safe now. That John didn't have to worry anymore, about himself or about Sherlock. That they could solve cases together without having Moriarty's shadow looming over them. More than anything, he wanted to hear John's voice again.

Sherlock reached for his only form of comfort.

_I'm thinking too much. –SH _

Sherlock wiped away forming tears with the back of his hand, and fell asleep on the couch without a blanket.

When he woke up, it was warm. There was something warm wrapped around Sherlock's figure. He reached for it, it was a blanket. He thought Mrs. Hudson must've checked up on him in the middle of the night, until he opened his eyes fully and looked across the room to find Dr. John Watson, sitting in his armchair with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

Sherlock started to breathe heavy, knowing for sure he must be dreaming. The heavy breathing made John look up, and a small smile crept up on his face.

"Morning, Sherlock." John said quietly with his hands clasped between his knees.

Sherlock's mouth hung open as he sat up and stared at the figure that looked just like John sitting across the room.

"It's alright, Sherlock, you're not dreaming. I'm here." He got up and walked slowly over to the coffee table. Sherlock noticed his limp, but he didn't have his cane. John sat down on the edge of the table.

"You're dead." was the first thing that came to Sherlock's mind and the first thing to spill out of his mouth.

"I know. I know that's what you thought, and I'm so, so sorry." John's head hung down. He spoke in a low, almost ashamed tone.

Instead of responding, Sherlock reached down into the pocket he doesn't keep his phone in, and pulled out a swatch of beige fabric. He presented it to John as if offering proof of his passing.

John took the piece of his jumper and held it gently in his hands. "I'm sorry." He said again.

Sherlock got up from the sofa and made his way to the window. Back facing John, he stared down at the street.

John got up and stood close behind him. His eyes getting watery, he tried to utter something that made sense. "Sherlock, I—" but before he could find a suitable sentence, Sherlock turned around and flung both of his arms around John, hugging him tight.

Sherlock buried his head John's shoulder, and without a minute's thought, John wrapped his arms securely around Sherlock and pulled him in closer.

After a moment of heart-wrenching silence, Sherlock could hear small, short-breathed sobs coming from the doctor. Instinctively, Sherlock rested a hand on the back of John's head, suddenly very happy to be feeling his short sandy brown hair.

The two separated, and when John looked up there were tears forming in Sherlock's eyes as well.

Through trembling breaths, John muttered, "Don't you ever say you don't need me again…" Sherlock just pulled John in for another hug to shut him up.

John was holding the burnt piece of his jumper in his hands as he sat across from Sherlock in their chairs.

"My jumper, I took it off, before I left." John started.

"Before you left?" Sherlock tried not to sound eager to hear every detail.

"Sherlock, when I was trapped, I figured there was nothing left to do. Now I've always had my doubts about religion, but I didn't think there was any other hope left. I looked up to stutter some makeshift prayer, when I saw the latch on the ceiling."

"Of course!" Sherlock exclaimed, "The door to the attic!"

"Yes, the attic I never knew we had."

"Even I forgot it existed…"

"I climbed up as fast as I could. It was dark and small and cramped. I figured curling up into a corner was my best option."

"But the explosion?"

"I felt it, that's for sure, but it wasn't enough to reach me. Unfortunately, the smoke was. I was going to make my way out but enough smoke leaked up through the cracks and I passed out. When I woke up, the fire was out and there was no one left in the flat."

"How did you get out without anyone seeing you? How did you get to a hospital without anyone realizing—"

"Sherlock, I, um, I called Mycroft."

"You what?"

"He helped me, through all of this."

"My own brother knew you were alive and he didn't—"

"Listen to me. I asked him to keep me hidden."

"You, you _wanted_ me to think you were dead. That's why you took off your jumper isn't it? So I would think that was all that's left of you!" Sherlock's face was flushing red now.

"Please, don't get angry. I had reason."

"_Reason?_ There is no reason!"

"At the time, there was…" John's voice trailed off and he broke eye contact.

"What do you mean 'at the time'?"

John looked at Sherlock with a deep sadness swimming in his ocean blue eyes. "You didn't need me."

Sherlock looked down in a mixture of sorrow and shame. "John, I…"

"It's alright, I think. Sherlock, I know it's hard for you to understand feelings, but you really hurt me. You made me feel like it would have made no difference if I was alive or dead. I just wanted you to know, for once, what hurt felt like. I was being spiteful and selfish. I regretted the decision very quickly."

"Then why didn't you come back?"

"I had to help you first."

Sherlock looked puzzled. John could see the wheels turning behind his mint green eyes. "Had to help me? With what?"

"All the time I was gone, I spent it tracking down Moriarty. I finally got a hold of his mobile records and saw the text he sent you about the train tracks."

"Good shot." Sherlock blurted out.

"What? Oh, uhm, thank you."

There was a long pause. For a while neither wanted to disturb the silence, just wanted to appreciate each other's presence.

John's voice cut through the air. "Are you angry with me?"

Sherlock looked up and cracked a half smile. "Furious." He said.

With the sky outside turning a venetian blue, Sherlock sat in the living room and watched intently as John cleaned up the mess on the table.

John looked over and caught Sherlock staring. "What're you gaping at?" He smiled.

Sherlock continued to admire and appreciate the way John always absent-mindedly cleaned up his messes. He smiled wide. "Nothing." He answered.

"You know there's something I still don't understand." John's tone became a bit darker.

"What is it?"

"If you missed me so much, how come…" John looked down at the table, "how come you were so adamant about not needing me?"

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. "John, I know you believe fully that emotions are not my area."

"Yes?"

"While it's true some do perplex me, I understand how many of them work. And I knew what would break you down. I knew what to do to make you hate me."

"Make me hate you? What're you talking about?"

"I was having nightmares. We were back at the pool. Moriarty kept saying he was going to…burn the heart out of me."

John swallowed hard, finally comprehending the statement.

Sherlock continued, "Once it hit me what he really meant I knew he'd be coming after you, so long as you were still with me. You needed to leave, or he was going to kill you."

"And instead of just telling me this you decided to push me until it was my choice to leave?"

"Precisely, that way you wouldn't be tempted to come back. You'd see leaving as the most rational choice and not question anything."

"But you weren't expecting him to—"

"No, I wasn't. He caught me off guard. And I never forgave myself for the things I said to you."

"But Sherlock, you didn't mean them."

"No, but you would have never known that. You were right."

John tried not to smirk. "I was right? About what?"

Sherlock tried to bury his face under his brown locks. "I wanted so desperately to ask how you felt, what you could see. I wanted to tell you I was sorry. I could still hear your voice inside my head. I truly felt that living with pain of loss was far worse than the one being lost. And one morning, I woke up, absolutely alone." With that, Sherlock dug his face into his hands, and began to cry uncontrollably.

John immediately stopped what he was doing and rushed over to the sofa, carefully putting an arm around Sherlock. He held him tight and tried to calm him down. "Sherlock it's alright, I'm here, remember that okay? I'm here."

"And do you know what John?" He asked through uneven breaths.

"What?"

"I didn't like it."

John just put his other arm around him and held him close. Suddenly, through his tears, Sherlock began to laugh. John let go, still keeping an arm around his shoulder, and leaned back. "What's so funny?"

Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes red and face covered in tears, but bearing a grin. "You're holding me John, people might talk."

John let out a short breathy chuckle and just admired this strange man he was clinging to. "You're an idiot, Sherlock."

"And you're tedious," Sherlock lifted his arms and wrapped them around John again, whispering into his shoulder, "but I need you."


End file.
